


The Dancing Men

by maypoison



Series: The Network [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Detectives, Eventual Romance, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, Multi, Pregnancy, Reader Insert, Slow Build, The Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 00:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15352044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypoison/pseuds/maypoison
Summary: Based on the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Dancing Men'.In one of the strangest cases ever received by the detective, Sherlock Holmes is approached by a caring husband whose wife has been terrified by the appearance of childlike drawings around her home. Sherlock for once is baffled by the case, but to both his and yours surprise, you are not.





	The Dancing Men

You creep down the stairs feeling much better; refreshed and revived. It was around 6pm, so you had managed to get a decent amount of sleep. Remembering what Bill had told you the night before made you realise just how lucky you were to have a warm room and a bed all to yourself. You vowed that you wouldn’t waste it, and would make sure that you wouldn’t be useless to Sherlock Holmes, who had given you the opportunity to work and live with him. Of course, it had been John’s idea to begin with, but Sherlock had agreed, and you hoped he knew how grateful you were that he did. 

As you are halfway down the wooden staircase, you hear voices from the living room. You falter for a second, hearing someone you didn’t immediately recognise.

“This is all the info we have at the moment. I'm waiting to get some results -”

Lestrade. What was he doing here?

You continue down the staircase quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever it was that was going on.

“The lab report?”

“Yeah it’s all in there.” Detective Lestrade continues, and you hear a rustling. It sounded like he had some paperwork. “It’s a shame; a real bloody shame.” You can almost see the man shaking his head, but don’t dare move on the creaky staircase. Something told you that you shouldn’t be interrupting this particular conversation.

“An average of one hundred homeless people are attacked or killed in London alone per year, Inspector. It’s not exactly a new phenomenon.” You stop dead then, listening intently to the conversation between Greg and Sherlock.

You hadn’t seen Greg in a while, not since you and Sherlock had helped him with the Vauxhall Bridge murder. You wanted to see him, but something was keeping you glued to your spot on the staircase.

“Jesus Sherlock, don’t let her hear you say that! Show some bloody compassion.”

“Not good?” The detective asks, and you don’t have the will to roll your eyes at his comment. Something was going on, and it sounded serious.

“You’re an idiot.” John’s voice replies suddenly, and you think that he must be stood in the kitchen, as his voice is nowhere near as loud or clear to you than the other two men.

“Where is she?” Greg asks after a minute, and then you realise he was talking about you. You falter for a few seconds, wondering if you should try and sneak back to your room.

“Asleep.” Sherlock answers quickly, and you hear some pages being turned loudly. Cleary the detective was reading something. You think you hear someone clear there throat, but it doesn’t sound like any of the three men. Was there someone else in the room?

“Thank you for this Greg.” John says, and his voice sounds louder, signalling that he must have made his way back into the living room.

“No problem. I should be heading back to the station though. Let me know how it goes.”

You hear muffled thank you’s and farewells from John and Greg, before suddenly the Detective steps out into the hallway, putting on his long black coat.

“Greg?” You ask quietly, all the while wondering why you didn’t want Sherlock or John to know you were outside the room.

“Oh, hey love. You alright?” Greg asks, but he doesn’t sound casually or his usual warm self. He sounded … worried.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just woke up. You alright?”

John steps out into the hallway then, and he doesn’t look surprised that you are stood strangely halfway down the stairs. He nods at Greg, and the Inspector smiles at you before heading down and out of Baker Street.

“Could you come in here a minute sweetheart? Someone’s here to see you.” You walk slowly towards John, who moves out of the way of the doorway to let you pass him and enter the living room.

Sherlock is stood in the centre of the room, appearing dishevelled and it is immediately clear that he didn’t get any sleep. He ignores you and John entering the room, and is instead intensely focused on a small file in his hands. You recognised that kind of document; it was a police file. You had become accustomed to reading them often, but the atmosphere in the room told you that this wasn’t an ordinary case. You hear your name, and turn to see a familiar face sat on the sofa in the corner of the room.

“David?”

Another friend of yours from the streets of London. David had never seemed interested in working for The Network, so you can't help but wonder what brought him to Baker Street. Had he spoken to Lestrade? 

“Have a seat.” John says, directing you next to David, and you sink down slowly.

“What’s going on?”

John looks to Sherlock, and you look to David, trying to gleam an idea of why he was here. Sherlock stops flicking through the file, and closes it before turning to you. He has his ‘detective’ face on you realise. You had seen that expression many times, but never directed at you.

“William Morgan, otherwise known as Bill, was attacked and killed last night by a group of fifteen year olds.”

You blink, replaying the words over in your mind. The room is mind-numbingly silent, and you hear David next to you shift in his seat.

“What?” You ask, dumbfounded. Surely there had been some mistake. It was a test you decide. Sherlock was testing you -

“I’m so sorry …” John’s says in a solemn voice, and you turn your bleary eyes in his direction. “He was found outside a bus station. Some of his friends-”

“No.” You shake your head, ignoring the pleading look David was giving you. “No, he was at the Hostel. The one on Queen Street? I gave him the money for it myself.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that he wasn’t -"

“Sherlock!” John reprimands his friend, and the detective makes to reply, but then stops.

You don’t snap at Sherlock, just look at him to see his clear blue eyes appearing confused and disinterested. He didn’t care you realise. He didn’t care that the man who had saved your life, who had become a father to you … was dead. A sob escapes your lips, and you bury your face in your hands. David shifts on the sofa, moving closer towards you.

“Sherlock, let’s give them a minute” John asks, and you don’t look up to see the detective’s reaction. Clearly, he wasn’t too fond of displays of emotion or being told to leave his own living room, as you hear his distinct footsteps walk away, followed by his bedroom door closing.

John pats your knee, before moving over to his seat at the other side of the room. You can’t stop the tears that run down your face, and David puts an arm around you, not even bothering to try and hide his own tears.

* * *

“I didn’t know you lived with Ash. No one bloody tells me anything these days. Not since I moved from the Arches.” David says, shifting even closer to you and looking around the room as he does.

“Didn’t you?” You ask, wiping away your tears and watching as your friend looks around the room with an expression of awe.

“Well, I knew you was working with him. But now, you seem more like a companion.”

“No that’s John’s job. I’m just his assistant. For now at least.” You say as an afterthought, wondering if you still would be of use to the detective. After all, you still hadn’t even solved Miss Smith’s case.

“Ash?” John asks from his chair, and you falter for a moment, almost forgetting that the man was there.

“Sherlock.” You answer loudly so the man can hear you from across the room. “That’s his … codename” You flushed embarrassed at the revelation, but David just nods, with a deadly serious expression on his face.

“You use codenames?” John asks, failing to hide his amusement.

“Yeah, we can’t be saying ‘Sherlock Holmes’ all the time. It draws attention” David replies, and you smile at John’s amused expression.

“Or John Watson.” You add “People recognise the name.”

“Fair enough” John concedes, standing and moving across the small room to where you and your friend sit on the sofa. “So, what was my codename?”

“Doctor.” David answers immediately, and John frowns, seeming to be disappointed.

“That’s rubbish”

“Trust me, it’s better than what someone else came up with” You reply, and you shake your head when the man gives you a ‘tell me more…’ expression.

“Do you always use that name for Sherlock?” John continues, sitting closer to you on a wooden chair by the table.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondered.” John seems to be amused by your little codenames, and you wonder if maybe even you had one, now that you were staying with the detective. You made a mental note to ask David about it later.

“And Mycroft Holmes. Can't be saying that name on the streets all the time.” David continues, and you manage to poke him harshly in the ribs without John seeing.

“Mycroft?” The man asks, clearly enjoying that even more than Sherlock or himself being given a nickname.

“Also known as ‘Stick’” David continues, rubbing his side and winking at you when you roll your eyes.

“Stick?”

“Yeah, because he always has an umbrella.” David explains, and John laughs once, clearly amused.

“Then why not just call him umbrella?” The man asks, and you smile as David’s expression changes suddenly.

“Because that’s stupid.” You laugh and David turns to smile at you, obviously pleased he had managed to change your mood.

“Yeah, plus ‘stick’ rhymes with what we used to call him …”

Sherlock marches back into the room, and you, David and John all try to disguise your laughter.

“What?” The detective asks in his usual monotone.

“Nothing Sherlock.” John replies, clearing his throat and maintaining his composure. You and David can’t repress all your laughter however, and Sherlock frowns at you both.

“Have they gone mad?”

“Who knows. Is that the report?”

The mood in the room drops suddenly, and you feel slightly ill. You note that Sherlock at least has the grace to look contrite as he passes the small folder over to John. David shifts beside you, and you can sense his discomfort.

“He’s going to be buried at the Camberwell New Cemetery, it’s outside the city. Seems to be protocol, for this kind of thing.” John says, looking up at both you and your companion with an apologetic expression

“That’s alright Mr Watson, Bill never really like the pollution in the city much. Right?” Bill nudges you, and you can only nod your head in reply.

“There’s no next of kin, so he’s going to have a funeral paid for by the state. No guests or speakers, just a priest -”

“That’s fine” David interrupts, and both Sherlock and John frown at you.

“You … don’t want to attend?” John asks bemused, and you can feel Sherlock looking at you.

“Nah, Bill was never one for church and all that. We’ll say bye in our own way.” David puts a hand around your shoulder, and you stay quiet, ignoring the three gazes in your direction.

“Ok.” John concedes, holding out the file to David. “Do you want to …”

“Nah. That’s ok Mr Watson.” David replies, shaking his head and trying to hide the break in his voice, but you heard it.

“I will.” You hold your hand out for the file, and John pauses for a few seconds before finally handing it over.

David clears his throat awkwardly, before standing suddenly and doing up his coat. Clearly, the man had been watching Sherlock’s habits.

“Well I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you tomorrow love.” It’s not a question, because you know David and the group weren’t going to let you get out of this.

“Ok.” You say in a small voice that doesn’t even sound like your own, and you move your legs so David can clamber over you to get to the door. Just as he does however, he is accosted by Sherlock, and the two begin talking in small voices. You ignore them both, just looking down at the closed file in your hands.

“Can I keep this? Just for a while. I know Lestrade is going to want it back at some point.” You ask John. You wanted to read it, but just weren’t ready Not yet.

“Of course.” John replies, surprising you. Although you didn’t think you would have given it back even if he had said no. “Read it when you’re ready.”

You nod, holding the file closely to yourself as Sherlock finally finishes his conversation and walks back into the room. With David gone, it was just you and the two friends. An awkward silence fills the room, and you are at a loss of what to say. Did they want you to leave? Did they want you to stay?

“Tea?” A voice from the kitchen asks, and you nod, smiling. You hadn’t even known that Mrs Hudson was here.

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson.” John replies, and he seats down next to you in the spot that David had left vacant.

“So … what happens now?” You ask, raising your head and finally feeling like your teas had subsided. At least for now.

“We have a case.” Sherlock says, somewhat cheerfully, and you almost smile at his enthusiasm.

“Sherlock …” John reprimands his friend, and the detective actually looks apologetic.

“No. It’s okay.” You reply, obviously surprising the two men. Mrs Hudson places two tea cups on the table in front of you and John, patting you quickly on the knee before she walks back into the kitchen. You sit up straight and you wipe your eyes. “Tell me.”

Sherlock sits at the table near you, a small smile on his face. John frowns at the man as he sips his tea, but you both listen intently as the detective tells you of his latest case.

It is interesting; like nothing you had come across before. You hear Bill in your head as you listen to Sherlock; the man’s voice teasing you about ‘your detective’. He wasn’t ‘your’ detective you reason to the imaginary Bill, but he was your friend. And as long as he would have you, you would stay at Baker Street, helping him in any way you could. After all, Bill had saved you once, and Sherlock had done it again. If it wasn’t for him, you would be under a bridge or sleeping at a bus stop. You would have no food, no money and no future. The man hadn’t just given you a job; he had given you a life, and a future. Sherlock seems oblivious to your inner monologue, but just talks animatedly about the next case. A strange case, about Dancing Men.

* * *

Sherlock pulls his laptop over to his lap, and begins clicking rapidly. John stands to place your now empty cups in the sink, and you watch the detective as he looks enraptured at something on the screen. He stops for a moment, before flipping the screen around so you can see whatever it was that he was looking at. You recognise that the man is reading emails, and the attachment that he opens appears to be the drawing that he had told you about. It appears just to be a row of stick figures, but you know that they cannot be as simple as they look.  

“His wife found these figures carved into a garden bench, and they terrified her.” Sherlock explains, and you reach out to take the computer from him.

“They just look like, like a kids drawing or something.” You reply, feeling slightly disappointed that a closer inspection of the image hadn’t revealed anything particularly strange.

“You’re sure that this is what it looked like.” John asks, pointing towards the laptop that rested on your legs. Clearly he was as bemused as you were. 

“Mr Cubitt assured me that those figures are an identical copy of the ones his wife saw. Apparently he spent a good deal of time to make it exact.”

“Mr Cubitt? Where have I heard that name before?” John continues, moving to sit back next to you on the sofa.

“Didn’t he buy that  _huge_ manor house outside London a few weeks ago?” You ask, and John and Sherlock both turn to you. Sherlock looks amused, whereas John just looks plainly amazed. “What? I read the newspapers as well you know.”

“The very same.” Sherlock says with a nod, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “A very respectable man by all accounts.”

“And what did his wife say?”

“She didn’t.”

John frowns, and you continue to inspect the image on the computer. You still couldn’t see anything interesting. “What, she denied seeing them?”

“No, she hasn’t spoken since he did see them. Apparently she’s locked herself in the house and barely moves from her bedroom.”

“Has Mr Cubitt been emailing you?” You ask, clicking off the attachment and noticing a huge amount of emails that appeared to be from a Mr Cubitt.

“Yes, and he should be here … any minute now.” Sherlock says casually, taking the laptop from you and placing back on the table.

“What?” You reply, and you subconsciously look at the dishevelled clothes you were wearing.

“Sherlock! You should have said.” John scolds his friend, but Sherlock just looks confused.

“I just did.” John huffs, and you smile fondly at the man. “Don’t you have somewhere to be John?”

“Right, I should be heading home. Unless …” He stops to look at you, and you can’t help but be moved that the man was concerned about you.

“I’m ok John. You go and see Mary. We’ll handle this.”

John says his goodbyes and makes his way back home, all the while Sherlock is drawing something on a piece of paper and doesn’t even look up when his friend leaves the flat. He hands you a copy of the image that he had hand drawn, but you notice that he had made small notes around the page.

“So, what do you think?” The man asks, handing you the paper.

“I’ve never seen them before.” Sherlock huffs, before walking over to his seat by the fire and sitting down heavily. You smile at the detectives annoyed expression. “You look disappointed.”

“I thought they may be code for something.”

“And I would know that because …”

“You use codes.” Sherlock replies simply. You frown for a moment, not really understanding why the man would think you would recognise the strange picture.

“Well yes but …” You stop then, your eyes growing wide. Sherlock just smirks and you hope that you aren’t visibly blushing. “Oh god, you heard us didn’t you.”

“To be honest I think I prefer Mycroft’s original codename to ‘Stick’”

You laugh freely, and for a few seconds all your sombre thoughts leave your brain. It is just another day in Baker Street, with you and Sherlock working on your latest case.

Mrs Hudson suddenly appears from the living room doorway. You smile at her, and the woman smiles back, appearing almost to be distracted by watching you and the detective for a few moments. That is of course, until Sherlock loudly clears his throat.

“Sherlock, there’s someone downstairs asking after you.”

“Show him in Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock replies, standing and moving over to where his navy jacket sits on his chair by the fire.

“I’m not your housekeeper you know.” The woman argues with a frown, but she still walks down the staircase to show your new client in.

You adjust your clothing quickly as you stand, before moving over to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Apparently your new client was rich, and also English. You thought that a cup of tea would be a good place to start.

“Mr Holmes?” A kind voice says, and you turn to walk back into the living room.

The man wore a patterned suit, and you were distracted by the fact that he looked almost like a stereotypical farmer more than a man who owned a huge manor house.

“Mr Cubitt I presume. Have a seat.” Sherlock says politely, motioning over to John’s vacant chair.

The man moves over to the chair, stopping when he sees you stood halfway between the kitchen and living room. You smile politely, hoping that the man wouldn’t be able to tell you had been crying.

“Hi.” You say quietly, and Sherlock wordlessly hands you your notebook.

You are flabbergasted by the action, coupled with the fact that Sherlock points to his own chair by the fire, obviously wanting you to sit down. You do as your instructed, watching as the detective picks up his drawing from the table and hands it to your new client.

“So what do you make of it Mr Holmes?”

“A childish drawing, no doubt a prank.” Sherlock answers, pacing in front of you and Mr Cubitt. His movement was making you dizzy, and so you distracted yourself by finding a clean page in your notebook to take some notes.

“Prank or not Mr Holmes, this has scared my wife half to death.” The man replies, waving the small piece of paper in the detective’s direction.

“Do you have any ideas as to who is tormenting your wife Mr Cubitt?” Sherlock asks simply, and you fight the urge to tell the man to hold still.

“I thought it might be our gardener, but he denies it.”

“Is there anyone else who regularly comes to the house?”

“Well yes. We have the young man who comes to do the garden once a week. I saw him last night and he had no idea what the figures were, let alone where they came from. And we have a live in maid. She’s been with us for years.”

“Maid?” You whisper, shooting a look to Sherlock. The man rises a brow quickly, and you hide your smirk as you write down some notes.

“How long have you known your wife Mr Cubitt?” The detective asks, mercifully pausing from his pacing and putting his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t …”

“Trust me, it’s a relevant question.” Sherlock says coolly, and Mr Cubitt visibly gulps.

“3 years. I met her here in London at a hotel, and we became friends. She would come to visit me in Derbyshire after I returned home, and we were married a few months later. It was quick I suppose, but we just … clicked.”

“Tell us about your wife Mr Cubitt.” Sherlock asks, and you roll your eyes as he begins to rapidly pace yet again. You wondered if you would manage to trip him if you stuck your leg out as he passed you …

“Well, she is a few years younger than me. Originally from America, Chicago I believe.”

“And why did she come to London?”

“She travelled most of her life, and after we became friends she decided to immigrate here and stay in England.”

Sherlock stops suddenly, and looks over to you. You write down what Mr Cubitt just said, paying special attention to the fact that Sherlock deemed that information important.

“We need more.” The detective mutters under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock sweeps over to the client, all but pulling him out of his chair and guiding him out of the room. “Mr Cubitt, please do not hesitate to contact me should more of these drawings appear …”

“Of course Mr Holmes.” Mr Cubitt responds, bemused by the man’s actions.

You watch as the two men stand by the door conversing, and move to the kitchen to deal with the now boiled kettle. You understood what Sherlock was concerned about. Obviously this drawing had a meaning, or even a secret message of some sort. But without more, you wouldn’t be able to read them. Sherlock walked back into the living room as you hear Mr Cubitt descend the stairs. He moves over to his empty wall above the sofa, and sticks the image in the centre.

“That wasn’t exactly sympathetic.” You murmur, placing a cup of tea for the detective on the table. You never really saw him drink it, but thought it wouldn’t hurt to keep making him them. John would be pleased to know you tried you think, walking back into the kitchen to fix yourself your own drink.

“He doesn’t come to me for sympathy.” Sherlock murmurs, sticking up another piece of paper.

It is the same image, but this time he had separated the small figures. He circled the flags, and had written a small note on the page that simply read ‘stop’.

“You think they’re words?” You ask, noticing that the figures were now in small groups.

“I know they’re words.” Sherlock replies simply, standing further back and admiring the images from a distance. “The question is, what does it say?”

* * *

You and Sherlock sat in the living room after Mr Cubitt leaves for hours. The detective had managed to find a whiteboard, and had meticulously drawn out the strange symbols so you could both look at it in more detail. You wondered where the whiteboard came from, but didn’t ask, in the fear that you would invite the detective to start off on a tangent.

You stand in front of the board, looking at the symbols but not daring to draw or make notes. Sherlock’s phone chimes from its place on the table, and the detective walks over to answer it. To your surprise, the man doesn’t even look at the screen, but just presses a button and places the device into his pocket. Clearly he was ignoring someone, and you had a nagging feeling that it was Mycroft.

Whilst the detective is stood near the desk, his laptop pings, indicating that the man had received an email. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds, and you wonder if this was going to be another night of mostly silence.

“Another message from Mr Cubitt …” Sherlock says, moving over to the whiteboard and beginning to draw another two lines of the strange dancing men.

Standing and not doing much else but stare at a board had made you groggy, and you run a hand over your eyes to try and wake yourself up. You were trying to focus on the case, lest your mind wander to thoughts of Bill.

“This appeared on his front door when he returned home a few minutes ago. He just sent through an email.” The detective continues, still working on the images.

You found it to be a vast improvement that Sherlock was now explaining what was going on in the case, and in his head. It allowed you to keep up. Sherlock finishes the new drawing and moves back over to his desk. His mobile phone buzzes yet again, but he ignores it.

Walking over to Sherlock’s opened laptop, you read the message from your latest client. He seemed angry, and you could sense how tense and stressed he was just through the words alone. Sherlock brushes past you to sit at the table and work on his laptop, so with a sigh you retreat back over to the board. The figures almost started to move after you had stared at them for so long, and you wondered if maybe you should just call it a night. Sherlock however, didn’t seem to be in the sleeping mood, as he was typing manically on his computer.

“What’s her name?”

“What?” Sherlock asks, and you can tell that the man is barely paying attention.

“Mrs Cubitt, what’s her first name?” You ask again.

“Elsie I believe.” Sherlock answers, not looking up from his work.

“Elsie …”

That would work, you think, looking at the childish drawing. There was one figure in particular that seemed to have been used more than any other. It was used twice at the bottom of the page, and you wondered which letter would be commonly used enough to work in the cypher.

You slowly approached the image on the whiteboard, looking closely at the five figures that danced at the bottom of the page. Mr Cubitt had sworn that this row of men were completely separate to the others, which would mean …

You look over to Sherlock, who flicks through a huge leather bound book. It looks ancient, but the man seemed to find it fascinating reading. You slowly pick up a pen from the bottom of the board, and begin to write in small letters, Elsie.

“What are you …” Sherlock turns to reprimand you, obviously not enjoying the fact that you were touching his work. Suddenly, the detective sees what you are doing, and moves to stand next to you in a frantic flurry of movement. “Of course …” The man mutters, looking at the handwritten note of ‘Elsie’ you had added to the board.

“Does that work?” You ask, looking at the five figures and the five letters you had written underneath.

Sherlock frowns, looking at the image on the board and your note as if it were something alien. He holds his hand out for the whiteboard pen, and you wordlessly hand it over.

He begins to write the same letters you had written, but much larger and along the blank lines that looked like they were from a blank game of hangman. Now if you had been right, you had four letters solved. Sherlock began to fill these in around the board, but there were still a lot of missing letters.

“We need another message …” The detective says, standing back to admire the board.

“I don’t think Mr Cubitt would agree with that …” You mutter in response, remembering how stressed and angry he had appeared to be in his latest message.

“We won’t get anything more done tonight. I’ll let Mr Cubitt know to watch for more messages.”

Sherlock marches back over to his computer, and for a moment you think about advising that he go to bed. You used to be amazed that no matter what time you contacted the detective, he always seemed to be awake and working. Now however, that you were seeing it first hand, it just made you feel worried.

“Anything I can do?” You ask, moving to stand behind the man in case he asked you to work at his desk. He often asked you to read through books or take more notes, but tonight he appeared that he didn’t really need your assistance.

The detective shakes his head, before bringing up a webpage that you see is about the Chicago police department. You head for the bathroom, intent on freshing yourself up. You surprised yourself with how tired you were, as you had a long nap after John had reprimanded you this morning. Looking in the mirror, you see a sunken and pale face staring back at you. You looked ill, and wondered if you had appeared this bad when you had company. You had begun to look a little healthier since living with Sherlock, but now you appeared like you had when you were living on the streets.

Before your mind can wander, you exit the bathroom, and hear that Sherlock is on the phone. He has adopted a flawless American accent, and is talking animatedly to someone. You tiptoe onto the landing and smile to yourself as you walk upstairs.

The bedroom that had once been Johns was bare, except from a small wardrobe, a bedside table and a double bed. You had nothing to unpack, except for your bag of clothes and some personal items. When you had stayed in hostels, you never took anything out of your bag. You were constantly ready to leave at a moment’s notice, but for some reason, you suddenly realised how unhomely the room looked, and you wanted to change that.

You spend a few minutes taking out your clothes, admiring some of the new ones you had gotten from Mrs Hudson, Molly and Mary. You hang each item in the wardrobe carefully, making sure that they were all evenly spaced out and looked neat and tidy. You then tip the remaining items onto the bed, and spread them out so you can admire them. You place your small tattered purse and the phone Sherlock and given you back into the bag. Next, you hold up a painting you had been given from one of your last cases. The young woman, Ellie Ferguson, you remember, had made it for you when you had been helping her and her brother. John had affectionately nicknamed the case ‘The Vampire of Sussex’. You place the painting on the wall, taking some pins that remained behind from John’s tenancy to hold it in place. Next, you take out your notebook, and place it on the bedside table. You have a few pieces of jewellery and makeup that you had had for a long while, and so place the small bag containing them at the bottom of the wardrobe. The last item on the bed was the picture of your family. Bill, Wiggins, David … everyone in your group smiling and laughing at the camera. It was your favourite possession. You carefully rest in up against the wall on your bedside table, before finally placing your rucksack on the floor by your bed.

Once finished, you put on a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt. You climb into bed, before turning to look at the photo.

“Goodnight Bill.” You whisper, before you turn on your pillow and close your eyes, listening to Sherlock downstairs as a cold tear runs down your cheek.

* * *

The next morning, you rise early, your nap from the previous afternoon making it difficult for you to stay in bed longer. To your surprise, Sherlock appears to have gone to bed when you walk into the living room, so you walk into the kitchen to make some tea. Whilst the kettle is boiling, you hear Sherlock’s ringtone sound from its place on his chair. Before you can make a move towards it, the detective bolts out of his room, putting the phone to his ear and beginning to talk in his American accent as he had done last night. You continue with your task of making tea, and are busy wondering if the man would want breakfast when Sherlock ends the call.

“Fridge …” The man says, and you follow his one word instruction to discover some sausages and eggs sitting on the designated ‘food shelf’.

“Thanks.” You reply, pulling out a frying pan from the cupboard and moving over to the stove.

“Don’t burn the house down.” Sherlock teases, now sitting on his computer.

“I’ll try not to.” You say honestly, remembering all the times you had seen Mrs Hudson cook for you and Sherlock and hoping that you were doing it somewhat correctly.

You watch Sherlock read as you cook your breakfast. He seems enamoured with something, as he is just staring at the screen, not typing anything. Suddenly, a ‘ping’ sounds from the computer, and Sherlock shifts in his chair, quickly clicking on something.

“Another message from Mr Cubitt …” Sherlock says, just as you place a sausage and fried egg sandwich next to him.

To your dismay, the detective doesn’t even acknowledge the food before he shoots up and begins to draw on the whiteboard.

You sigh as you begin to eat your own food, watching as the detective draws out the new message.

Suddenly, Sherlock stops. “Sherlock?”

You get no response from the detective; he just rushes over to gather his coat, before reaching behind you to grab his uneaten sandwich. He shoves it into his mouth, before running down the stairs.

You call after the detective, who begins frantically speaking to Mrs Hudson. No doubt his thunderously loud steps on the wooden staircase had woken her. You hear him mention John, but don’t really listen to the rest of the conversation. You stand, staring dumbfounded at the board.

Sherlock calls your name, and you grab your coat, quickly heading downstairs as the words from the new message burn into your brain.

_“Elsie, prepare to meet your God.”_

* * *

You and Sherlock remain silent for the entire morning journey to Mr and Mrs Cubitts country home. The last message had been completely clear; someone was planning on killing Mrs Cubitt. You wanted to ask if Sherlock had called the police, or at least Lestrade, but his demeanour and expression ultimately had you keeping silent and still in your train seat. You hoped and prayed with every ounce of your being that you would arrive in time to warn your client what was going on, and hoped that Mrs Cubitt could provide you with some answers.

You shift in your train seat, feeling oddly naked without your bag. You had never left it behind before, but you had been in such a rush that you hadn’t gone up to your room to retrieve it. You knew it would be safe at Baker Street, but couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that crept over you because of its absence.

Sherlock’s phone buzzes in his pocket as you near your destination, and you look at his watch as he types away a reply. It was only 8:30am, and the knowledge that it was so early gave you hope. Maybe, you weren’t going to be too late.

You both exit the train quickly, and you almost have to run full sprint to keep up with your companion. As you exit the station, Sherlock spots a vacant taxi, and you dash forward to claim it. As you near the door, a man steps in between you and the vehicle, a business like expression on his face. 

“Mr Holmes?”

“Yes …” Sherlock replies warily, nodding at you to get in the taxi.

“Detective Lord.” The man holds out his hand and Sherlock very poignantly doesn’t shake it “We’ve been expecting you sir.” The man continues, drawing back his hand and smiling awkwardly.

“Expecting us?”

You look over to Sherlock from the back of the taxi, the door remaining open in case the detective decided that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere and wanted to make a break for it.

“You’d best hurry sir, you may still be able help her.”

Sherlock frowns, utterly bemused, and you lean forward from you seat to address the detective. Clearly these people thought you were someone else …

“Help her?”

“Mrs Cubitt.” The man turns to address you, and Sherlock’s eyes widen as he hears the name “She’s murdered her husband.”

* * *

You sit in the back of the taxi with Sherlock, having kindly refused the offer to ride to the crime scene with Detective Lord in a police car. Sherlock never accepted offers from Lestrade either, and you wondered what it was about them that he didn’t like.

Detective Lord had been interviewing some witnesses before you had arrived, with one telling him about Mr Cubitt going to London in search of the famous detective. Detective Lord had assumed Sherlock would hear what happened, and head down to Derbyshire to see his client. He had hoped Sherlock would have some answers, but it would seem for now, Sherlock was keeping quiet about The Dancing Men. 

Pulling up to the house of Mr and Mrs Cubitt, you are momentarily dumbstruck. You had known that the man was wealthy, and owned a huge property, but this was beyond anything you could imagine. The house was more like a castle, with the ambulances, police cars, reporters and more gathering around the house easily fitting in the enormous gravelled driveway. The house was stunning, and it truly upset you to think that this was now the scene of a grisly murder.

You follow Sherlock and Detective Lord into the building, avoiding awaiting press and leaning under the police line that Sherlock so politely holds up for you. As you enter the entrance, a man approaches the Detective, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Finally!” He growls to Detective Lord, before gesturing to Sherlock “This way please ...”

The detective makes to say something to the man, but Sherlock gets there before him. “I am Sherlock Holmes; I believe you’ve been expecting me.”

“Mr Holmes?” The man says, sounding completely taken aback. He rushes over to where you and Sherlock stand near the doorway, and quickly takes the mans unoffered hand and shakes it rapidly. In any other circumstance, you may have laughed at Sherlock’s expression in meeting an obvious fan. “Of course sir, it’s a pleasure.”

“And you are?” Sherlock asks, removing his hand and plainly wiping it along his long black coat. You can’t stop your eye roll at his childish gesture.

“Oh apologises sir, Doctor Hilton, Mr Holmes. I’m head of forensics on this investigation.”

“Doctor Milton is a big fan of your work Mr Holmes …” Detective Lord says with a small smile, just as you move out the way of some people who walk into the hallway.

“Clearly.”

Sherlock walks further into the hallway, turning to check you were behind him. You follow him and Detective Lord as they walk through the huge house, Doctor Hilton walking side by side with Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes, how did you hear about this incident? I mean, it only happened in the early hours of this morning. There was no official announcement made …”

“We were expecting it.” Sherlock interrupts Doctor Hilton, as you all stand outside a closed door.

Doctor Hilton and Detective Lord frown, before looking over to you. You shrug, before remembering that you were now part of a official investigation.

“We hoped that we would be able to stop it.” You reply, and the two men look away from you with matching solemn expressions.

“I see. Terrible shame. But, I do believe it seems to be a simple case.”

“Mrs Cubitt?” Sherlock asks Detective Lord. He seemed to be looking at everything in the room, without even moving around.

“In hospital. She was taken there this morning.”

“How is she?” You ask, surprising even yourself with the question.

“In critical condition.” Doctor Hilton answers your question. You nod, before walking closer to Sherlock and away from more people who had entered the room, this time taking photographs. You couldn’t help but feel like you were in the way.

Detective Lord, turns to Sherlock, clearing his throat. “Mr Holmes, you know we can’t just let anybody wander into …”

“She is my personal assistant. She’s stays with me throughout my investigation.”

You look over to the detective as Sherlock begins exploring the room, and smile shyly as the man frowns at you. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting that answer. “I promise I won’t get in the way.”

“The body is through here Mr Holmes …” Doctor Hilton says, gesturing to the closed door. You realised he must have been talking about Mr Cubitt, and you tried not to let your distress show openly on your face.

“No.” Sherlock says, taking off his coat and holding it in his arms. “First I would like to speak to the witnesses.”

“Witnesses?”

“Yes. There were people here in the house when the incident occurred.”

“Well yes; a Miss McGee the maid and a Mr Bolton. I believe he was a gardener for the Cubitts who was staying the night.”

“Lead the way …” Sherlock says to Detective Lord, and you send a parting glance to Doctor Hilton, before you follow the two men from the room, in the opposite direction of Mr Cubitt.

* * *

“Why were you here Mr Bolton?”

You sit next to Sherlock at the Cubitts kitchen table. You internally curse yourself for not collecting your notepad, but you had been in a rush. Suddenly, a hand comes from behind you, and wordlessly puts a piece of paper and a pen in front of you. You smile in thanks at Detective Lord, and then at Sherlock, knowing he must have mentioned something.

“Mr Cubitt asked me to sir.” Mr Bolton replies from his seat opposite you.

“Why?”

The young woman beside him, Miss McGee, wipes away a tear and turns to address the detective. You pull the paper towards you, ready to take notes. “A few nights ago, Mrs Cubitt came downstairs and was trying to sneak out. Mr Cubitt called for me and I came down to help get her back into bed. When we were stood by the door, we saw someone outside. A man …”

“Who?”

“I didn’t see his face Mr Holmes.” The woman replies, and you know she is telling the truth. Sherlock seems to think so to, as he sighs quietly before turning to Mr Bolton.

“Mr Cubitt asked that I stay here with them until they found out what was going on. I think he was worried that the man would break in.”

The detective nods, and you quickly write some notes in your abysmal handwriting. John hadn’t thought it was that bad when he had looked in your notebook, but then again, he was a doctor. 

“What happened this morning?” Sherlock asks loudly, shifting around in his chair and taking a dominant stance.

“I was woken up by this … thunderous bang. It was so loud it shook the house.”

“And you Mr Bolton?” Sherlock turns to the man, as Miss McGee blows her nose loudly.

“Same for me.” The man says with a solemn expression “I woke up and walked to the door; saw Sharon outside her bedroom, and then we heard a second bang.”

“But it was quieter, not as loud as the first one.” Miss McGee continues, and she lifts her tissue to her face to wipe her eyes.

“Go on …” Sherlock prompts, and you note the softness in his tone.

“Well we rushed downstairs, and found …” Sharon gasps then, her tears beginning to flow rapidly as she no doubt remembers what she saw that morning.

“I called the 999, and Sharon helped Mrs Cubitt. She was still breathing. But Mr Cubitt …” Mr Bolton takes a deep breath, and shakes his head.

You keep quiet throughout the interview; just taking notes every now and again and listening closely to the conversation. You had assisted Sherlock before, but never on a case like this. This was now a murder case, and a new one. You had worked with Molly in the morgue once before and even helped Greg at a crime scene after a man had been murdered. But this was different. This was your client and his wife, and being able to picture him smiling and alive in Baker Street just made everything so much worse. You let Sherlock lead the case, understanding that now wasn’t a time for you to be learning or trying to deduce things. Now was the time for you to listen, and watch the master at work.

“Was anything moved in the room?” Sherlock asks suddenly, and the two interviewees frown, clearly not understanding why the man had changed the conversation.

“No Mr Holmes. Everything looked to be in its normal place.” Mr Bolton says, and Sherlock frowns.

“Except …”

“Yes?” Sherlock prompts the young maid, and she looks to Mr Bolton, almost as if she wanted reassurance.

“The window, the one out facing the garden. It was wide open.” Sharon says, and Mr Bolton looks to Sherlock and shrugs, in a clear ‘I didn’t know that’ gesture. “I closed it before anyone came. It was making the room freezing cold …” The woman adds, before Sherlock stands quickly and ultimately silences her mid speech.

“Thank you.” Is all the detective says, and you quickly move to follow him and his sweeps from the kitchen and back into the hallway.

* * *

You look down at the body of Mr Cubitt. It was not the first body you had seen in your life, but the fact that you knew the man made it ten times more awful to see the figure lying bloodied on the living room floor.

“He was shot once through the heart. Clear shot, died instantly.” Sherlock recites, standing from the body and continuing to move throughout the room. Two men come in to remove the body, and you murmur a quiet goodbye as he passes you.

You wondered if Sherlock was making an observation about the man dying instantly because he was making deductions, or whether he wanted to assure himself that Mr Cubitt didn’t suffer.

“The murder weapon?” Sherlock asks, and Detective Lord steps forward and produces the gun that had killed Mr Cubitt.

“It was found in the hand of Mrs Cubitt.” The detective says, as Sherlock opens the gun and inspects it.

“Two bullets missing …”

“One in Mr Cubitt, and one in Mrs Cubitt. As I said Mr Holmes, this seems to be a fairly simply case.”

Sherlock snaps the gun shut with more force than  necessary, and hands it back to the detective. He walks over to the window that according to Miss McGee, had been wide open during the incident. Sherlock inspects it for a few seconds, before turning back to Detective Lord with an expression that couldn’t be anything other than smug.

“Then how do you explain the bullet that clearly hit the window frame.” Sherlock says, pulling out his magnifying glass from his pocket and holding it up for the detective to look through.

“How on earth did you see that?” The man asks, sounding both bemused and impressed.

“I was looking for it.” Sherlock says.

Before you can comment, the man pushes the glass window open, and climbs through, gracefully hoping down onto the gravel outside. You hear more than see the man move around, and turn to shrug at Detective Lord when he gives you a confused look.

“Well, that means that a third person was present.” The detective calls out the window, before suddenly Sherlock’s hand shoots up into vision.

“The third bullet, no doubt matching the bullet from Mr Cubitts gun.” Sherlock says calmly, before placing a small bullet in Detective Lord’s open palm.

“Who was he shooting at?” You ask Sherlock, as he clambers back into the living room through the window.

“But Mr Holmes, the witnesses claim that they only heard two gunshots.” Detective Lord says, as a forensic officer moves forward to bag the bullet the man was holding.

“And they did …” Sherlock says simply, adjusting his clothes before pulling off his plastic gloves. When Detective Lord just frowns, Sherlock rolls his eyes, before looking over to you expectantly.

“The first shot was at the same time …” You reply, and as you say the thought out loud you know that it is true. Sherlock smiles at you quickly, before moving over to the window where he had just come from.

“An intruder stood here, and Mr Cubitt and he shot at the same time. Mr Cubitts bullet hit the window frame, and the second bullet hit Mr Cubitt.” Sherlock holds his arm up in the direction of the doorway, and you nod as you understand his explanation. Detective Lord seems to be impressed, as he also nods as Sherlock moves over to the doorway. “Elise, seeing her husband murdered, then took her husband’s gun and attempted to kill herself.”

“Well then, we need to find this intruder.” Detective Lord says firmly, and you try to hide your smile when you see Sherlock’s expression.

“Already done.” Sherlock says, walking over to a desk in the adjoining room, and gathering a paper and pen. Detective Lord looks over to you, confused.

“He’s been leaving messages for Elise. His last one threatened to kill her.”

Detective looks flabbergasted, and turns to glare at Sherlock, who was busy writing. “And you don’t think you should have mentioned that earlier Mr Holmes?!”

“It wasn’t relevant.”

“Wasn’t relevant?” Detective Lord mutters under his breath.

Sherlock turns to you, and places the papers he had written in your hands. “The garden bench at the far end of the garden.” He says, and you nod, moving to hide the note where you had been instructed.

“Mr Holmes …”

Sherlock sighs, obviously understanding that he needed to explain himself to present company. “I am going to leave a note for the intruder, one that only he and Mrs Cubitt would be able to understand. He is going to come to the house, and it’s going to need to appear like nothing has happened.”

“Johnson, move all the cars. And clear away the reporters!” The detective instructs to a young officer by the door

“Yes sir.” The young man says, turning and beginning to usher everyone from the room.

“What then?” Detective Lord asks, and you turn to look at Sherlock.

“Then, we wait for him to come to us.”

* * *

You stand in the library by the window, looking out onto the now completely empty driveway and watching for anyone approaching the house. Sherlock stood at the opposite end of the room, facing the door. You noted that he had a gun clearly in his hands, as did most of the officers hidden around the house. Surely this man was dangerous, and you tried not to think too much about it. 

Suddenly, you see a figure approach the house. He wore a suit, but his long coat over that hid most of his body and face. You gulped, before turning to Sherlock and nodding. He nods also, before pulling out his phone and pressing a button. He sends a message to Detective Lord, and you know that everyone in the house is ready. Sherlock nods to you a moment later, just as a knock sounds at the door. Taking a deep breath, you move away from the curtain, and walk confidently to the entrance of the house.

Sharon’s uniform fitted strangely on your body, and you pull it awkwardly as you move to open the door.

“Evening.” You answer cheerfully, and the man before your frowns.

“Sorry sweetheart, I’m looking for …”

“The Cubitts?” You ask, your voice cracking. You clear your throat, and the American man frowns. “I am Miss McGee, the maid sir.”

“Maid?” The man laughs, and you smile, trying to hide your discomfort.

He steps into the entrance way, and you quickly stand back, avoiding the man’s body crashing into yours as he all but falls into the room. You quickly look at him, and assess the man as he peels off his coat and hands it to you. Uneasy on feet, red eyes, shaking hands … The man was drunk. You breathe a sigh of relief. Sherlock had warned you that he could be high, but you would prefer drunk over that any dya of the week.

“This way …” You say, after hanging up the man’s coat.

Your stomach coils when you notice that the man was looking up and down your body, an expression of amusement on his face.

“Where’s Elise?” The man asks casually, standing much too close to you for your own liking. You try to walk further forward, but the man doubles his speed, crashing into your back.

You try not to flinch. This wasn’t the plan, you think. You needed to get him into the library. “Asleep.” You murmur, internally cursing yourself for not being able to keep your voice from shaking.

“Really?” The man drawls, before wrapping an arm around your front and pulling your body against his. You felt sick, but managed to keep your body still and calm. “When did you start working here doll?”

The man leans down to your exposed neck, with the uniform you were wearing leaving the skin open. He runs his lips along the flesh, and you shudder. He smiles against your skin, and you hope that he doesn’t think the movement is from fear.

“A few months ago.” You say casually, managing to pull away casually to speak to the man directly.”

“Really? Now that’s interesting …”

The man approaches you, and you back up further into the hallway. Just a few more steps backwards, and you would be in line with the police waiting. You knew they were stood upstairs on the landing, and you tried to calmly lead the man into their sight.

“Interesting?” You ask, flattening down your uniform. “Do you want to wait in the library? I’ll go and get Mrs Cubitt.”

“That’s ok.” The man approaches you once again, but this time, he doesn’t let you move away. He grips your upper arms, pulling you towards himself. “I much rather talk to you doll.”

“Me?” You try to keep your voice light, but no one could mistake your unease.

“I’ve stood outside the house for two months, and I’ve never seen you before …” The grip on your arms becomes tighter, and you wince.

“I …”

“Who else is here?” The man’s flirtatious demeanour has gone now, and he shakes you roughly. “Where’s Elise?”

“Dead.” A voice comes from behind you, and you sag in relief

“What?” The man gripping you sounds genuinely shocked for a moment, before his face hardens and he scoffs. “No she’s not. She sent me a message …”

“Come tonight. It’s safe. Tell no one.” Sherlock says calmly, and as he moves into your line of vision, you see that he has a gun firmly trained on the man before you.

“No …” The man shakes his head, just as more police surround you.

“Easy …” You hear Detective Lord address his men, obviously referring to the fact that there target was currently using you as a human shield.

“After you shot and killed her husband, Elsie Cubitt turned her gun on herself …”

“NO!” The man screams, and in one smooth movement, he turns your body around, and pulls you facing outward, You face Sherlock, and the detective smiles.

Slowly, as the man behind you begins to move backwards, heading to the door, you reach down underneath your short dress. The police all stay still, waiting for you to make your move. You smile at Sherlock quickly, drowning out the sound of cries and curses coming from the man holding you. Just as you reach what you need, the man holding you gets to his coat, and pulls out the gun hidden within it. You curse yourself internally for not finding that before, and note from Sherlock’s expression that he obviously isn’t happy you missed that either.

Before the man can turn the gun towards you, you press the button on your weapon, and it sparks to life. You press it against the man’s leg between your own, and quickly pull away from his arms before the electricity running through your Taser can reach you. It is too late though, and the volts shock you from the arms holding your body. You cry out in pain, just as the man falls behind you with a deafening thud. You are pulled forward quickly, before you hear a distant voice that you recognise as Doctor Hilton. He tells someone not to touch you, and so you lie, writing on the floor for a few seconds as you hear people approach the fallen man behind you. The Taser still sounds in the distance, and you hope that your assailant is still thoroughly enjoying its effect.

* * *

“Alright?” Sherlock asks, helping you sit up. You are alone in the hallway, with the noises from outside signalling that the police had moved outside with Mr Cubitts killer.

“I’ve had worse …” You murmur, and move to stand.

“That was a stupid plan.” Sherlock says, holding you more firmly when you sway on your feet.

“It worked.” You reply, somewhat cheerfully, trying not to wince from the pressure Sherlock was putting on your already bruising arms.

Detective Lord comes back into the house with a smile, and shakes Sherlock’s spare hand, the other busy helping you stand upright.

“Thank you Mr Holmes. Without you, well I don’t think we would have been able to catch him” Sherlock smiles, and begins to help you move outside. “That’s a very dangerous man we’ve put away Mr Holmes.”

“What?” You whisper, but Detective Lord catches your comment.

“Mr Abe Slaney, one of the most dangerous men in Chicago.”

“What!” You say, your voice getting much louder. You turn to glare at Sherlock, and Detective Lord very wisely decides it was time for him to leave you and the detective alone.

“You were perfectly safe.” Sherlock says, sounding almost annoyed that you would think otherwise.

“I didn’t feel safe …” You mutter, before watching as the police van holding Abe Slaney drove away.

“Mr Holmes?” You and Sherlock both turn to see Doctor Hilton, stood by a waiting ambulance. He looks wary to approach you, and you wonder if it is because of his fascination with Sherlock, or because he had just seen you taser a man in the leg.

Sherlock looks down at you, silently asking whether you felt like  trip to A&E was necessary. You did feel bad, dizzy and sick, but the last thing that you wanted to do was spend a night alone in a strange hospital.

“I just want to go home.” You murmur, and Sherlock nods.

“Detective Lord …” Sherlock calls to the man waiting by his police car, and you wonder if Sherlock’s aversion to travelling in police vehicles didn’t count when his assistant had been tasered.

Smiling, you climb into the back seat of the car with Sherlock, turning to look at the grand house for one final time before you drive away, heading back to London.

* * *

“Are you going to explain it?”

You and Sherlock sit on a mostly empty train back to London. You took the seat opposite the detective, feeling a little too queasy to travel backwards all the way back to the capital.

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock asks, sounding amused. No doubt he was finding it humorous that you were trying to stay awake and make conversation, rather than just give in and go to sleep.

“I think you owe me …” You say, and soften the comment with a smile.

Sherlock sighs, before looking out of the train window. It was pitch black outside, and you wondered what the man was staring at with such interest.

“Elsie’s father is head of a prominent criminal circle in Chicago. Abe Slaney was one of his associates, and was apparently promised to Elise.”

“Promised, you mean like an arranged marriage?” You ask, shifting in your chair to try and stop your head from involuntarily lolling onto the window.

Sherlock nods “She fled Chicago, ultimately trying to flee her father and his associates.”

“How did he find her?”

“I don’t know. But we can assume that it was by nefarious means,”

“And the figures?” You ask, referring to the strange dancing men that had started the case.

“It’s how I recognised him. It’s a cypher code that the circle use to communicate. They’ve been found linked to Elsie’s father for years.”

“So he knew she would understand it …”

“Exactly. And no one else could.”

“Poor Elise.” You mutter, your eyes drifting shut against the cool glass of the train window.

“Why did you tell him she died?” You ask Sherlock after a few minutes of silence. He turns to you surprised, obviously thinking you had been asleep.

“She won’t be seeing him again.” Sherlock mutters, and you smile.

“You wanted him to suffer, and now he has to live his life thinking he killed her.” Sherlock nods, and you laugh once. “That’s harsh.”

“He deserved it.” Sherlock puts so much venom in his voice, and you almost flinch.

“What happens now?”

“Abe Slaney will be taken back to Chicago.” Sherlock says simply, as you begin to see some of the glowing lights of London in the distance.

“Good.” You murmur intent on getting at least a few minutes of sleep before you return to London.

You remain silent up until you arrive at Baker Street. Sherlock had been working for days straight without a break, and you don’t blame him when he heads straight for his bedroom when you return. Getting into your room, you look at your bag on the floor, and sigh when you notice that it is untouched. It was irrational for you to worry, but you did anyway. You pull out your phone, and are surprised to see you have a message from non-other than Mycroft Holmes.

_“Remember, tomorrow evening 8pm sharp. Anthea will collect you from Baker Street. Until then, Mycroft Holmes.”_

You smile as you crawl into bed. Of course Mycroft would text in full sentences. Suddenly, your eyes shoot open in the dark, and you groan.

“Oh god ...” You mumble to yourself “What the hell am I going to wear?”


End file.
